Lovestruck
by kototyph
Summary: Three times Derek was gobsmacked, and one time it just sort of dawned on him.
1. Peter

**Lovestruck**  
» **Rating**: T  
» **Classification(s)**: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance  
» **Warnings/Tropes**: Platonic Love, OCs Like Whoa, Backstory, Pre-Season One  
» **Summary**: Three times Derek was gobsmacked, and one time it just sort of dawned on him.

» **Author's Note**: Love, be it romantic or platonic, doesn't often end well for Derek Hale. Mah poor wee bb...! :'(

* * *

1.

* * *

"Mom—"

"Not now, Derek," his mother says, without even turning her head in his direction.

"But, Mom—!"

She sighs, sets her glass down on the table. "Sweetie, why don't you go play outside? That's where Laura is, right?"

He's opening his mouth to say "That's why I came _in_side!" when the smoky-rich smell of _alpha_ hits his nose, a second before a hand grips his shoulder. He looks up to meet his father's eyes before instinctually ducking his head.

"Why don't you go find your cousins, Der?" the man suggests quietly, lifting his hand to ruffle Derek's hair. "Your mom and I are a little busy right now."

"But..." Derek begins, looking back at her. They're not even _doing _anything, just sitting at the kitchen table with his aunts, drinking coffee and talking. One of the aunts is smoking, and the acrid scent of tobacco masks the familiar smells of food and family. He wrinkles his nose.

"Derek."

That tone brooks no argument, and Derek keeps his eyes down but drags his feet as he leaves the room, lower lip trembling a little.

Derek _hates_ conclave weekends. Conclaves mean his parents disappearing, aunts invading his house, uncles standing around on the deck, and all his stupid, stupid cousins using his toys and swingset, running all over his yard playing Catch the Rabbit.

Derek is always the rabbit.

It's not that he's the youngest cousin, because Aunt Annie has a pup too little to run and Aunt Caroline's toddlers have just started, but he's the smallest of the 'big kids' and that means whenever all the cousins get together he's the one who ends up omega, last for everything and constantly getting jumped and chewed on.

He obediently goes outside, even though it's a million degrees out. He doesn't see his cousins anywhere, but he's careful anyway, sneaking around low and slow to the south side of the deck. There's a gap in the boards there, and he slips inside, curling up at the far end of the narrow crawlspace and listening to the boards creak and settle as his uncles move over them.

Ernesto, his newest uncle, is talking about his old pack in Mexico. For a long time, Derek listens and draws in the dirt with a finger, imagining running in a forest made of cactuses and sand. It sounds like it would be hard. Their forest is much better, dark and cool, the fallen leaves pooling so deep in some places you can bury yourself in them. He could run in their forest forever, when it's not full of cousins.

"Found him!" someone crows, and before Derek can get away they've got a hand around his ankle and are dragging him back out into the hot sun.

"Let me go!" he shouts, kicking at them, and manages to get free for an instant before they slam him down, pinning him by the neck and grinding his face in the dry, prickly grass.

He shifts, too angry not to, and that just makes them laugh harder. They let him go and he scrambles to his feet, turning to snarl and brace for the next assault.

"Where'd you go, huh?" Matthew, one of the biggest cousins, asks him. He stalks in a circle around Derek, eyes a solid, menacing gold. "Took almost ten whole minutes to find you this time."

"He went into the house," Laura calls from across the yard, jogging towards them. "That's cheating, Der!"

"Shut up," he yells, and swallows against the instinctive fear at challenging her. But he hates her, _hates _her, her and his stupid cousins, hates them all. "I don't want to play anymore!" The words come out slurred around his fangs.

"Aw, the little rabbit doesn't want to play," someone coos, and they all laugh, Laura and Matthew especially.

"C'mon, I'll give you a minute's head start," Matthew says, stepping forward, and Derek doesn't step back. Doesn't lower his eyes.

Matthew's eyes narrow.

"_I don't wanna play_," Derek growls, defiant and scared and a little proud of his own daring. He's going to get beat so bad, but—

But nothing, as it turns out. Matthew is on him in seconds, and his cousin is a _teenager_, he outweighs Derek twice over, and even shifted Derek is no match for him. Matthew gets him pinned again and just starts punching, lips drawn back over his own fangs as he shifts too. The blows land on Derek's face, on the soft, vulnerable parts of his stomach, and he can taste copper and bile in his mouth, smell Matthew's rage. Laura is yelling at Matthew to stop but the other boy doesn't seem to hear her, and Derek cries and coughs and thinks, _He's going to kill me._

A growl, a _real _growl, cuts through the cousins like a silver knife and Matthew is suddenly dangling from one arm, twisting and squalling like a wounded polecat.

"Get lost," someone snaps, and tosses him aside. He lands a few feet away and scrambles towards the trees, the other cousins quickly following.

Arms scoop Derek up from the grass and settle him on a hip, and Derek smells pine sap and leather, lemonade on his breath as the man whispers, "Okay, kiddo?"

"U-uncle Peter," he whimpers, wrapping his arms around the man's neck.

"You shouldn't interfere like that, Pete," one of his other uncles calls out from the deck. "Let the pups sort it out between themselves."

"Oh, _fuck_ you," Uncle Peter mutters under his breath, and Derek stares wide-eyed at him, tears forgotten.

"You swore!" he whispers. Uncle Peter smiles, lifts a finger to his lips.

"Shhh, don't tell the alpha."

"I heard that," his father says from the open kitchen window, and Uncle Peter's mouth flattens before twisting into a rueful grin.

"How about this, Derek," his uncle says, starting to walk around the side of the deck towards the stairs into the house. "You and me are going to go clean up, and then we can go down to the tunnels. It's nice and cold down there, and there are some really cool things I know you're going to like."

Derek's eyes go big and round. Only the adults are allowed in the basement tunnels; none of the cousins have ever gotten further than the first landing before.

"Does that sound good?" Uncle Peter asks, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

"Ye—yeah!" Derek nods enthusiastically.

Uncle Peter starts to grin, then purses his lips. He shifts away to put a hand under his shirt, and uses it to wipe at some of the wet on Derek's cheeks. The cloth comes away stained red.

When they pass through the kitchen, his mother looks up and sighs. "Derek, I wish you could just play nicely with the other children," she says as she starts to get to her feet.

Derek shrinks into himself, but Uncle Peter's already saying, "It's fine, Miranda, he's good now. No thanks to your boy, Sherrie."

One of the aunts says, "What can you do? They're pups," and the rest nod in agreement.

"Stopping them from beating each other to death seems like a good first step," his uncle says on a laugh, but his heart is beating fast and under the smell of pine and leather, anger smolders. His arm tightens briefly around Derek, and Derek turns his face into his uncle's shirt and inhales, breathing the scent in.

Derek decides in that split second that he loves Uncle Peter, more than his mother and the alpha, definitely more than Laura, more than anyone else in the whole world. No one else has ever been angry for him. At him, yes, because of him, more times than he can count, but never _for _him.

Uncle Peters carries him down into the tunnels, and even when he sets Derek on his feet he never once lets go of his hand.

* * *

**A/N2:** I have a personal headcanon that Peter is the youngest Hale brother and was often in the same situation as Derek (Official Title: Pack Punching Bag), hence his fixation on being the alpha, etc. As to why Derek's parents display such Grade A child-rearing skills, hopefully that will become clearer in the next chapter.


	2. Outtake

(**A/N:** I wanted to write more kid!Derek, but it didn't really fit into the larger plan of Lovestruck. So, here, have an outtake! Consider it chapter one point five.)

* * *

The call comes in on a slow Thursday, when John is staring at his computer screen with his fourth cup of coffee in his hands, willing the dialup connection to move just a little faster. Please. He'd like that arrest record while he's still young, here.

The speaker over his desk crackles to life, and their chain-smoking secretary rumbles, "_Deputy Stilinski, line one. Deputy Stilinski, line one."_

Grateful for the distraction, John snags the receiver and punches in the hold line, leaning back in his chair as far as the cord will stretch. "'llo?"

"_Mr. Stilinski?"_ The voice on the other end sounds pretty and young, and John smiles at the crime scene diagrams tacked to his wall, thinking of Shannon.

"Last time I checked," he jokes.

The caller's voice chills considerably. "_Mr. Stilinski, this is Beacon Hills Elementary calling."_

_"_Oh God, Stiles," he breaths, sitting up abruptly. "Is he alright? Is he sick?"

_"Your son has been in a fight with another student, and has been suspended," _the voice informs him in clipped tones. "_You or your wife will need to come collect him as soon as possible."_

"Wha—?" John sputters. "He's in kindergarten!"

"_Violence is not permitted on this campus at any age," _the voice says primly. "_We have a zero-tolerance policy for physical infractions._"

There's a gag in there somewhere about schools and prisons, but John isn't laughing. "I understand, ma'am. I'll be there as soon as I can."

_"Thank you, Mr. Stilinski. He'll be waiting for you in the principal's office."_

* * *

"The principal's office," John mutters as he rolls into the small, weedy parking lot of Beacon Hills Elementary and parks in the very last row, furthest from the door. "You're in _kindergarten,_" he says to the air as he slams the door and stomps towards the cheery front entrance, where he'd dropped off his little juvenile delinquent just that morning. "This is your second week of school _ever._ What the hell, kid?" he grumbles.

Shannon couldn't able to get away from the bank so it's just him, slinking into the front office with the same guilty reluctance he remembers from his own days as a student. It's quiet, and empty but for the receptionist and one tired-looking man, sitting with his legs stretched out and his head propped up on a hand. He blinks and his eyebrows arch high when he sees John's uniform.

John gives him a tight-lipped nod and comes up to the desk, and it's a good thirty seconds before the receptionist glances up.

"Uh, hi," he says with an uneasy smile. "Deputy Stilinski, here for Stiles?"

She doesn't smile back. "Please have a seat. The principal will be with you shortly," she says dismissively, and John reluctantly turns and chooses a seat to the right of the other man.

The man is still staring at him, and when John gives him an inquiring look he says, "I apologize, deputy, but you had me very worried for a moment."

It takes John a minute to realize that of course, there would be another side to this story. "I knew Stiles was in a fight, but— are you the other parent? I mean," he starts, but the man is chuckling and shaking his head.

"No, no, I'm fairly sure mine acted alone. He's not exactly the most social kid," the man says, and his smile is rueful but warm.

"Mine's a little too social, if what they tell me is true," John says, settling back in the narrow, uncomfortable chair. "He's such a sweet little kid, for God's sake, what's he doing getting in fights?"

"When you find the answer, let me know," the man says wryly, and it makes John laugh.

"Deputy John Stilinski," he says, and lean over the chairs to offer his hand. "Father of Stiles Stilinski, suspended for fighting."

"Peter Hale," the man says, and takes it. "Uncle of Derek Hale. Suspended for what I suspect is a rather long list of charges, and probably includes fighting." He sighs. "Derek's a good kid, really, but—"

At that moment, a door is thrown open at the far end of the room with enough force to dent the wall. "—and die, old man!" someone yells, and then a kid stalks into the room, hands in fists and face screwed up in a baleful glare.

Jesus, John thinks, they don't make preteens like they used to. The kid is skinny and gaunt-looking, wearing a black leather jacket three sizes too big and the barest beginning of stubble along his lip. His eyes, when he meets John's stare, are hard and angry, and he juts his chin out defiantly at whatever shocked expression the deputy has.

Then those eyes slide past John to Peter, and the kid freezes.

"U-uncle Peter?" he says disbelievingly.

"Unfortunately," Peter says dryly, and the kid deflates like a punctured party balloon.

"I, uh, I can explain," he says to the ground, voice small, and Peter makes a short, choppy gesture and stands.

"Not interested. Just c'mere," the man says, and his nephew shuffles obediently forward.

Peter looks back at John with a sardonic grin. "Nice to meet you, deputy. Keep an eye on your kid, or," and here he reaches for Derek and tugs him under his arm, "he could come out like _this!_" He squeezes tight, making the hug a headlock, and Derek yelps and laughs and flails as Peters pushes the door open and pulls him outside.

"Ow, owwww, Uncle Peter, it's not _funny,_ _it hurts, let go, let me go...!_"

Bemused, John watches them stumble into the parking lot. They separate, but Peter keeps a hand on Derek's shoulder. He says something, pointing back towards the school, and Derek ducks his head and nods.

They climb into an old, rusted-out truck just as minivan spins on two wheels to make the turn in, squealing to a stop half-in, half-out of a handicapped space. A harried-looking woman all but leaps out of the driver's seat and jogs for the door, which she flings open.

"I'm so sorry I'm late," she begins, striding up to the desk. "Melissa McCall, here to see—"

"If you'll please have a seat, ma'am," the receptionist says, but at that moment another door in the far wall opens and a young woman John recognizes as Miss Mallory, Stiles' teacher, gently pushes two little boys into the room.

"Dad!" Stiles says as soon as he sees him. He has the other boy by the hand, and yanks him along as he runs up to John, bright, excited smile taking up the whole of his face. "Dad, this is Scott, an' he 'n me are gonna go to his pond and look for turtles!"

"Turtles," Scott confirms in a soft, shy whisper, looking up through his bangs.

John looks at Miss Mallory, who shrugs. "Sometimes they work it out on their own," she says with a fond smile.

"Scott, sweetie," Melissa, who must be Scott's mother, says. "I was so worried. Are you okay?"

Scott nods, leaning into Stiles' shoulder.

"Good, because if you ever do something like this again I'm selling you to the gypsies!" she snaps. "Did you apologize to—"

She glances at John, who mouths _Stiles._

"— to Tiles?"

"It's _Stiles,_" Scott says, lisping a little, with the overwrought exasperation of young children everywhere. "Yeah, I said sorry."

"I did too Dad, honest," Stiles says, before John can ask.

"They did," Miss Mallory confirms, and sets down two backpacks. "But they're still suspended."

"Which means no turtles," Melissa says swiftly, and Scott gapes.

"But _Mom_—"

"No. You're in so much trouble, mister," she says, grabbing his backpack and then him, lifting him into her arms.

Stiles turns to John. "But—"

"Gonna have to go with Ms. McCall on that one, kiddo," the deputy says, and Stiles pouts hugely and stamps his foot.

"But we were gonna—"

"Nope," John repeats, and crouches down to help Stiles put his backpack on. "Maybe, if you're good, you can play this weekend."

In the parking lot, he and Melissa exchange contrite smiles and phone numbers, hers on the back of a grocery receipt, his on his official deputy's business card, which makes her glance down at her adventurous choice in parking spots and give him a sheepish look.

"I think I'm willing to let it go this once," he says lightly, and tips his hat to her. "Evening, Ms. McCall. Scott."

"Bye, Stiles!" Scott lisps, wiggling his fingers through the thin gap above the window.

"Byyyyyyyeeee!" Stiles says, standing on his toes and waving with both arms, and they both giggle.

"Your mom was really upset, you know," John tells Stiles as they walk to his car, his son wrapping his tiny hand around John's fingers. "I hope you're ready to grovel."

"What's a grovel, Daddy?" Stiles asks, swinging their arms in wide arcs. "An' what's a gypsy?"

John snorts, and Stiles whines, "Daaaaad, tell me, tell me," and instead of answering John picks him up and spins until neither of them can breath for laughing.

* * *

Shannon cries, then grounds Stiles for a week. There's never been any question as to who's the disciplinarian in this family.


	3. Kate

**Lovestruck**  
» **Chapter-Specific** **Rating**: R  
» **Classification(s)**: Angst  
» **Chapter-Specific Warnings**: Underage Sexual Relations, Dubious Consent  
» **Summary**: Three times Derek was gobsmacked, and one time it just sort of dawned on him.

* * *

» **Author's Note**: Remember, that last chapter was an _outtake_. This chapter returns to the main 3+1 plotline and contains Kate/Derek of the **underage, dubious consent** variety, and also mentions of graphic violence. If either of these things disturb you, consider skipping this part.

* * *

2.

_"You understand, don't you?"_

Derek understands.

_"We have to do what's best for the pack."_

He wants what's best for the pack, too.

_"Just... stay there a little longer?"_

He'll stay.

_"It'll work out."_

He doubts it.

_"I love you."_

"Love you too, Dad," he parrots dutifully.

_"We can talk again on the weekend."_

"Okay."

Derek waits until he hears the quiet _click_ that signals the alpha has hung up, and gently replaces the receiver in its cradle. He lets his hand fall, bowing his head to stare blindly at the floor. For a moment, the only noise in the darkened motel room is the faint buzz of the stark florescent bulbs.

"Right," he whispers.

Then rips the phone out of the wall with an inchoate roar.

The plastic casing splinters on impact with the opposite wall, swiftly followed by the chair he's sitting on, the cheap motel toaster, the table, and everything on it. The last creates a shuddering hollow boom that finally satisfies, and Derek stops, panting harshly, hands curled into white-knuckled fists.

He wants to run, _needs _to run; the unthinking rage that led to all of this in the first place is like a fire at his back, a black dog nipping at his heels and he feels half-crazy, surrounded by the smells of a million different strangers.

And that's the point, really. That's why he's here, on the outskirts of this sleepy little suburban town that just happens to lie right in the middle of the neutral zone between the Redwood and Beacon Hills packs. He can't run. He's not even supposed to leave this room. Matthew's parents are demanding full weregild, eye for an eye, son for a son. If they catch him before the pack comes to a formal agreement, they'll kill him outright.

So Derek waits, still and quiet as he can. He hides, like a hare in tall grass, wrapping himself in human scent and human manners, smiling at the woman at the front desk, joking with her husband, making small talk with the man at the convenience store, who worries about the boy who comes in night after night to buy nothing but soda and Hungry Man frozen dinners.

Underneath, the wolf is constantly raging, stronger now as the moon waxes full in the sky above, and it isn't a choice anymore. Derek has toget_ out_.

Slowly, as slowly as he can make himself, he walks across the room, shoving his feet into boots and reaching for his jacket where it hangs on the wall. He wrenches the door open, and twists the hinges so out of joint it refuses to close behind him. He takes several long, deep breaths, and _makes_ it close. It might never open again, but he doesn't care, he_ doesn't care, _not about any of it, and he's going to go feralif he spends one more second—

Deep breaths. The cool, wet scent of autumn fills his head, tainted with human garbage but better than the dense smells of sweat and despair that permeates the grungy room behind him. It's raining, icy needlelike drops that sting as they strike his face, and it's the first bit of luck he's had in days.

His feet move of their own accord, down the steps, into the street and away, body falling into a long easy lope as he works to put as much distance between the motel and himself as possible. As long as he keeps moving, the water will wash away any faint trace he leaves behind, and maybe he'll live to see pack justice passed on his head.

Maybe it will end all the same anyway.

There's a bar, down on a miserable little alley that runs under the highway. It's tiny and rundown and stinks of decades of piss and vomit, but (maybe because of that) he's never smelled another wolf there. Other things, yes; things that itch at his nose, wary-making and confusing, but very definitely not wolves. Not _humans_. And in the small lonely hours of the night, it's comforting to know a place where the stifling press of humanity that surrounds him during the day isn't all-emcompassing.

It helps that they don't card, either.

It's a Wednesday (maybe Thursday by now) and the bar is dark and all but dead, handfuls of patrons grouped in twos and threes talking quietly amongst themselves as the aging jukebox asks someone to pour some sugar on, love. Derek can feel eyes like the prick of knives as he slinks through the door and up to the dimly-lit bar.

He always gets the same thing: a third of raw whiskey, no ice, sloshing around at the bottom of a smudged glass like liquid regret. He doesn't like it, the taste or the burn, but it'd been the first thing that came to mind when the old man behind the counter had asked, "What'll it be?" He's hoping it makes him seem older, but from the look the man gives him every time he orders, the opposite might be true.

That first sip is always the worst, and the liquor burns all the way down to his empty stomach, hits it like napalm and spreads. Slumped low over the bar, he swallows against a cough and takes another sip, gritting his teeth and cutting a glance back out towards the worn felted pool tables, over the dirty, cracked dance floor.

There's a group in the far corner, two men and a woman sitting at a table together. The light falls so that Derek can only see pieces of them, an arm illuminated here, her waterfall of dark blonde hair there. There's something odd about the way they're sitting, facing each other but not talking, all their attention focused outward on the rest of the dark room. Derek wonders vaguely if they're waiting for someone, and lifts his glass again.

He sits, and drinks, but the restlessness that brought him here won't bleed away. He's tired of _waiting_, of feeling like the ax over his neck might drop at any moment, and the anticipation mixes with that aimless agitation and simmers just under his skin, resentment, anger, confusion, fear. The wolf says, _He challenged. He lost._ The wolf says, _We were dominant. _The wolf says, _We were in the right._

Derek remembers the sudden hot gush of a severed artery in his mouth, remembers almost choking on the blood, and the next sip of whiskey is more of a desperate gulp.

"Going at it a little hard, aren't you?" someone asks, voice low and amused.

It's the woman from the corner, hair curling artlessly over her shoulders, eyes half-lidded, mouth crooked into a small smile. Closer, there's something familiar about her face, like he may have seen her around. Maybe she's been in here before.

He'd remember this scent, though. She smells... there's something smooth and warm and ready, coming off of her in waves. Derek can't help but part his lips, inhale so some of that heavy ripeness rolls across his tongue. Inside, the wolf pricks its ears.

She's watching him like she expects an answer, and under her waiting gaze he manages a stumbling, "I don't— know?"

"You don't know," she repeats, eyebrow raised. "Honey, that's just sad."

He scowls and looks away, but she's already falling into his space, sliding onto the stool next to him and leaning companionably against his shoulder. It's hard to breathe around how inviting she smells, and Derek tenses, acutely aware of every point of contact between them.

"Don't look so mad, kid," she husks, rum and cigarette smoke on her breath. "You don't know, that's fine. Maybe I can help with that."

Her name is Kate, and she drinks whiskey like a man twice her height and three times her weight. Normally Derek does as well or better, but he finds himself moving strangely slow and clumsy in comparison to her quick gestures and cutting words.

"My brothers and I, we were meeting some business partners here in town," she says, four or five glasses in. "Nothing but work, work, work, for _weeks,_ Derek. I'm ready for a little fun."

She's running a finger down his arm, lopsided smile gone wide and a little wicked, and he doesn't remember telling her his name but he must have. "Fun?" he asks, slurring the word.

"That's right," she purrs. "Come outside with me?"

Derek's never picked up a woman in a bar before, has never actually kissed one, but he doesn't think this is how it usually goes. Kate pulls him through the door and around the corner, into a damp alley so narrow there's barely enough room for her to drop to her knees. She manages, though.

"God, what—what are you—?"

"Oh, baby," she chuckles, "You look like you could use so much more than a drinking lesson," and palms his dick through his jeans, hard. He groans, hips stuttering forward into her hand as the other slides up his inseam, fingers catching the hem of his shirt and dragging it up, baring the vulnerable stretch of his stomach.

Showing belly is dangerous for wolves, and submissive. Derek holds back an instinctual flinch, has a second to think, _No, she's human, _before Kate sinks her teeth into the softer flesh just below his navel. She seems to take his high yelp as a compliment.

She opens the button on his pants with her tongue, and he doesn't know what to do with his hands. They flutter around her hair uncertainly until she rolls her eyes up to his and twists his fingers in hers, pinning his hands back against the rough brick wall behind him.

It's— sloppy, like this, nothing but her mouth, the white flash of her teeth and the slick, obscenely hot curl of her tongue around the base of him while he's still trapped in his underwear, sliding wet and unbearably slow along the shaft when she's worked him free. And it's good, so good, Derek's head falling back against the wall even as his body pulls tight.

"Kate," he tries, feeling the press of the wolf like fur rubbing all along his insides. "Stop, I'm gonna—"

"I don't mind," she says, before her lips slip over the head of his cock and down, down, down, and after that there is no protest, only low, needy sounds and the occasional gasping "_Please_."

Derek comes like it's been punched out of him and knows he's shifted when everything goes grey and bright, Kate's face crystal clear as she pulls off him, tugs her fingers free so she can fist a hand in his hair and angle his face up to the moonlight.

"I was wondering when it'd come out to play," she grins, and her voice is throaty and rough from him, and that hits him almost as hard as her words.

She kisses him then, fucks into his stunned-open mouth with her tongue slotted between his fangs, and Derek doesn't know what's happening anymore. It's hard to panic, hard to feel anything at all but the way her body moves against his, the smell of her arousal so strong he can taste it.

"You got a place?" she husks against his lips, nails scratching through the fur where its sprouted along his jaw.

Derek thinks of his motel room, the one no one's supposed to know about, the musty sheets and lumpy mattress that have been his bed for the past three weeks. "It's not much, but—_ah_," he gasps as she grinds her hips into his.

Kate smiles into his neck, and breaths out, "We can take my car."

* * *

Two days later, Derek wakes up to the shrill ringing of the phone where it still lies in pieces on the floor.

"_You don't know me," _the voice on the other end says, when Derek has gingerly picked up the cracked receiver. _"But I'm a friend of your mother's. Pack what you can't leave behind and be waiting in front of the motel in twenty minutes."_

"Wait, what?" Derek says, crouched next the bed. His pulse is suddenly beating hard enough to make his voice catch.

"_The pack has ruled against you, and you need to get out of there. Twenty minutes. Be waiting."_

Derek listens to the click, then the dial tone as Kate stretches into wakefulness beside him.

"I need to go," he tells her, and she sits up, comforter falling away from her bare breasts.

"Where?" she asks, hand coming down to splay lazily over his chest.

"I don't know," he confesses, and she frowns sleepily at him, confusion a little line between her eyebrows.

He reaches for the top of the bedside table, where there's a pen and pad of paper. "If you need to reach me," he starts, and has to stop and swallow. He thinks, for a crazy moment, of asking her to run with him.

But why would she? They barely know each other. Hell, he doesn't even know her last name.

"If you need to reach me," he says again, "someone at this number will know how." He writes it out, rips the sheet off the pad and hands it to her; it's his parents' house, because he doesn't have anything else to give her.

Kate takes the number, turning it in idly her fingers.

"I'm sorry," he says, looking up at her. Her hair is a tangled mess, lips bruised and swollen like overripe fruit. She's beautiful.

"Sorry?" she asks, with a little laugh. She threads her fingers through his hair, tipping his head back so she can lay a brief, dry kiss on his forehead. "For what?" On his lips. "Sweetie, you gave me _exactly_ what I wanted."

* * *

**A/N:** So I may have done a silly thing.

Those of you over on tumblr, I've started a Teen Wolf holiday exchange for people who prefer to stay off lj or dw. Participants can give/get **fic, art, vids **or** fanmixes**. Sign-ups are open until October 1st; check it out at teenwolfholidayexchange .tumblr .com.


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